Wash and Sleep Cycle
by CrystalMoon
Summary: Chiana isn't the only one having trouble sleeping on D'Argo's ship. Crichton is awake too, and he's acting peculiar.


Wash and Sleep Cycle by CrystalMoon  
  
Feedback: It's always welcome. Spoilers: Set immediately after WWL2. Rating: G Summary: Chiana isn't the only one having trouble sleeping on D'Argo's ship. Crichton is awake too, and he's acting peculiar.  
  
Chiana woke with a start. She felt chilled, and tiny bumps pimpled her skin. She ran her hands up and down her arms, trying to warm up. They must be getting low on fuel again or the inside wouldn't be so cold. Chiana frowned as she noticed her breath clouding the air. She'd grab a blanket, but of course, D'Argo didn't have any. "Warriors do not bring blankets to battle," was all he'd said on the subject. Stupid, stubborn, frelling Luxon.  
  
Chiana rolled onto her back, and closed her eyes. She hugged her body, trying to conserve heat. It was hard enough to fall asleep the first time when everyone else was settling down and making their own space on the cramped floor of the ship, but now it was virtually impossible.  
  
D'Argo snored like a skelnik with its tail on fire, a long rumbling inhale followed by an equally long whistling exhale. Rygel was more of a sneak- attack snorer. As soon as Chiana started to drift off, Rygel hmphed and then belched so loudly it shook her teeth. Psycho-zu tended to roll against her until Chiana ended up trapped against the wall. Crichton was okay. He tended to mutter and twitch when he dreamed, but other than that, he just sort of lay on the floor and kept to himself. And Wrinkles, well, she just stunk.  
  
Sikozu sighed and rolled, throwing an arm across Chiana's neck. Chiana coughed and batted the arm away. As soon as she did, though, it settled back in place like it was magnetized. Chiana then tried pushing her away, but she couldn't budge her. For someone who was supposed to be so light, she seemed made of pure trolod. Why couldn't she just sleep on the ceiling, anyway?  
  
"Frell," breathed Chiana. She sat up, and Sikozu's arm fell onto the floor with a thud. Chiana shivered and looked around for a clear spot that wasn't too loud, too rolly or too smelly. There, she found one near the back of the ship, a beautiful empty place on the floor. Just as she started to crawl over there, she realized why the spot was empty. Crichton wasn't in it.  
  
Then she noticed the sound - water squishing and sloshing - and realized what had awakened her. Chiana stood as gracefully as she could after spending several arns on a cold metal floor. She tiptoed over Sikozu and the Old Woman and squirmed between a line of storage crates to the farthest corner of the ship.  
  
Crichton knelt next to their tiny wash basin. He was scrubbing his shirt with a rag and a generous amount of soap. Suds dripped over the edge of the sink and pooled on the floor, turning into translucent puddles that soaked the knees of his pants. Low instrument lights reflected red and blue on his bare skin.  
  
Chiana sidled next to him. "Hey, watcha doing?" she whispered.  
  
Crichton started and spun toward her, spraying suds. "Geez, Chiana. You almost gave me a heart attack." He placed a soapy hand on his chest and breathed hard.  
  
Chiana peered closer at his shirt. "You're doing laundry ... now. You really are farbot."  
  
"Go back to bed." He began rubbing the rag against his shirt again.  
  
"What bed? Oh, you mean that soft floor. Why? So I can listen to the beautiful sound D'Argo and Rygel make together? How about letting Psycho-zu throttle me? Oh, I know, I'll sleep next to Wrinkles till I smell as bad as she does." Chiana crossed her arms and sank against the wall till she was sitting across from Crichton.  
  
Crichton snorted. "Well, you gotta sleep some time."  
  
"Nah, I've gotten good at not sleeping."  
  
She watched Crichton scrub his shirt for awhile, occasionally lifting it to his nose to sniff it and then dunking it back in the water to slosh it around for a bit. Chiana tilted her head to get a better look at his face. This was odd behavior, even for Crichton. He was so intent on his work that he didn't seem to notice her, his brows drawn together in concentration. His knuckles were scraped raw, leaking blood into the water.  
  
Finally Crichton stopped and shook out his hands, flexing his fingers and spraying suds in the process. He picked up his shirt, sniffed it one more time and frowned.  
  
Chiana grabbed a corner of the wet material and brought it to her nose. She only smelled D'Argo's pungent soap. She shrugged.  
  
"Well?" said Crichton.  
  
"Well what?"  
  
"Can you still smell it?"  
  
"Crichton, I'm tired and I don't feel like guessing games. Give me a clue, okay?"  
  
Crichton sighed and dunked the shirt back in the water. He kept his eyes averted. "Heppel oil. Do you still smell heppel oil?"  
  
"Heppel oil? Why would I-oh."  
  
Crichton gave her a quick, furtive glance. "Yeah, 'oh.'"  
  
Chiana looked closely Crichton and his new obsession with laundry. "So that's why you and Grayza..."  
  
"I guess D'Argo didn't tell you." Crichton stopped washing, his hands still up to the wrists in sudsy water. "What, you thought I suddenly found Grayza irresistible?"  
  
"I did start to wonder about your taste in peace keepers." It was meant to be a joke, but neither of them laughed. Crichton went back to scrubbing his shirt, while Chiana watched, absently admiring the play of muscles in his shoulders and arms while she crossed her own arms in an attempt to stay warm. Their breath fogged the air.  
  
Heppel oil, she thought. That explained a lot. The way Crichton had kissed Grayza as if he couldn't help himself, as if he'd rather be kissing Scorpius. The way he'd refused to look at Chiana when she'd hissed his name right before the guards had dragged her to a cell. The way he'd gone off with Grayza for a quick frell -- or two or three -- while she and Jool and the old woman had been prisoners. She'd actually resented Grayza for bedding Crichton when Chiana hadn't been able to get anywhere with him in three years. But it had been heppel oil all along. The bitch cheated.  
  
"What was it like?" she asked him.  
  
"What was what like?"  
  
"Heppel oil. There are so many stories. I never met anyone before who actually used it. Was it drad?"  
  
Crichton squeezed the bridge of his nose, suds dripping down his cheek. "Chiana, I'd rather not talk about it."  
  
"At least it wasn't painful," she said, remembering her own pain of not so long ago. Wrists tied down, getting punched in the face and then the gut where it wouldn't show. Hot, smelly breath that made her gag. Big, calloused fingers with untrimmed nails. Greasy skin sliding against hers. No options, no cajoling or smiling to change their tactics. Men so high on crystals they barely even noticed she was a girl. The frells lasted barely more than a thousand microts, but there were so many of them.  
  
"How do you know it wasn't painful," said John, after a microt.  
  
Chiana looked at him curiously. "Was it?"  
  
He sighed. "No, it was the opposite."  
  
"You mean you liked it."  
  
"Sort of. No, yes, I don't know what the frell I mean." Crichton hit the sink with the heel of his hand. He rested his wrists on the edge of the sink and hung his head between his arms. He spoke low, so Chiana had to lean forward to catch his words. "You lose control. It's like someone else's mind takes over for awhile, and you're inside your head screaming at yourself to do something, to pick up the gun, to kill her, to do anything. But instead all you're doing is ... enjoying yourself. You want to throw up, but you're too busy fucking enjoying yourself to get around to it.... No pun intended."  
  
He kept his head down as if he were afraid to see her reaction. Chiana reached over to kiss his shoulder so he'd know she understood, but he flinched and drew back. As he did, he turned slightly and she caught a closer glimpse of his back. A myriad of fingernail scratches crisscrossed his skin. Some had scabbed over, but others looked red and painful. Apparently Grayza had enjoyed herself a little too much.  
  
"I'll be right back." Chiana scrambled to her feet and made her way to Granny's bag of junk. After a few microts of rummaging, she found the ointment and returned to John. He was resting his head on the edge of the sink, his back easily accessible.  
  
She knelt behind him and unscrewed the jar. It smelled earthy, like wood. "This'll help keep infection out."  
  
"Not necessary," he said.  
  
"Shh." She dipped her fingers into the goop. When she touched Crichton's back with it, he pulled away, muttering, "It's cold." So she let it warm on her fingertips before applying anymore. With light strokes, she covered all the scratches. A particularly nasty one stretched from his shoulder blade across his spine to the edge of his ribs, and Chiana wondered if Grayza hadn't been marking her territory rather than simply enjoying herself. If Crichton couldn't kill her next time, Chiana would gladly do it for him.  
  
She screwed the lid on the jar and crawled to her old spot across from him. "How's that?"  
  
He raised his head and flexed his shoulders, a surprised look on his face. "Feels great. Thanks."  
  
She nodded. Who would've guessed she and Crichton would suddenly have this in common, this feeling she know so well--willing her body to do one thing while it did the opposite as if possessed. But for her it was always a matter of survival. Doing something could get her killed. And it certainly couldn't get her the 20,000 credits she was due as payment. She always screamed in her mind to kill the bastard right before he came to climax. She never did.  
  
"You gonna sit here all night?" asked Crichton. He pulled his arms away from the sink and let them rest in his lap.  
  
"Just thinking," she said.  
  
"That's new." Crichton gave her a little smile. She punched him lightly on the arm.  
  
"Hey," he said, suddenly looking intently into her face. "Are you okay?"  
  
Chiana glanced down at jar and fought back tears. The question and the sympathy in his voice had caught her by surprise. "I'm always fine. I'm a survivor."  
  
"I know, but we haven't talked since you first came aboard Elack. It sounds like things were pretty intense while you were gone."  
  
Chiana shook her head, her throat too tight to speak. Damn. She didn't want to cry now. She was the experienced one helping Crichton. Not the other way around. But she felt John shift beside her. He placed a hand behind her neck and pulled her to him, wrapping his other arm around her back. When he kissed the top of her head, the tears came despite her efforts to stop them. She slung her arm around his shoulder, holding him tight.  
  
"It's all right," Crichton said, rocking her back and forth as if she were a child. Chiana closed her eyes. It had been so long since someone had touched her in kindness that she'd forgotten how it felt. He was so warm and solid, blocking out the cold air of the ship. She could almost believe that she was safe now and that all they had to do was find Moya and everything would be okay again. But she knew that hanging around Crichton meant peace keepers and being hunted and that any semblance of safety was just temporary.  
  
After a while, they both pulled back. Cool air rushed in and they both shivered. Chiana wiped the tears from her face. Crichton flicked moisture from his eyes too.  
  
"If you ever want to talk about what happened..." he said, trailing off.  
  
"I'll let you know," said Chiana. But she knew she never would. There were some things better left in the dark corner of your mind where you'd shoved them down a hole and buried them.  
  
Crichton nodded. Then he glanced at his laundry. "Are you sure you don't smell anything?"  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
He sniffed his arm and his shoulder and chest. "How about on my skin. I scrubbed it before I washed the shirt, but it's hard to smell this stuff on yourself."  
  
Chiana leaned forward and sniffed his arm. "It's fine, Crichton. I only smell the ointment. Now, Wrinkles, she smells bad. You smell okay."  
  
"She should be back here next," he mumbled as he set about rinsing and then wringing out his shirt. He let the basin empty of water before hanging his shirt on the edge of it.  
  
"Chiana," he said, looking uncertain for a moment. "If we ever find Aeryn, you won't say anything about what happened, will you? I don't want her to know-"  
  
"No way. If you want to tell her, you tell her. I'm not gonna do it."  
  
"Good." He yawned noisily, shivering as he did. "I'm ready to get some sleep. How about you?"  
  
Chiana agreed and yawned herself. She stood awkwardly and made her way back to the main part of the ship. D'Argo's loud snore greeted them, as did Granny's ripe odor.  
  
Crichton sunk to the floor in his old empty spot and stretched out on his side, crossing his arms and curling up. He looked cold with his bare skin on the floor, and Chiana heard teeth chattering. She glanced around for a space of her own. Sikozu had sprawled out over Chiana's old space. D'Argo snored so loudly it hurt her ears. Rygel did the same. And the last thing she wanted was to sleep next to Granny. As Chiana wondered if she should climb on the crates with their sharp edges, she felt Crichton tugging on her leg.  
  
He pointed to the small space in front of him.  
  
Chiana immediately lay down between him and the wall, her back to Crichton. He touched her arm tentatively, pulling her toward him with the slightest pressure. Chiana wriggled until she was up against him, the length of their bodies touching and oh so warm. She pulled Crichton's arm all the way around her and covered it with her own. His breath sighed across her neck.  
  
Chiana closed her eyes. In a moment, she was asleep. 


End file.
